


Bourbon & Bullets

by villainy



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, F/M, faramir has daddy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villainy/pseuds/villainy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gangster Freddy Mirren, committed to upholding the family name, finds more than he bargains for during a routine liquor delivery when he crosses paths with a strangely alluring woman known to bootleggers up and down the East Coast as The White Lady.</p><p>(Faramir/Eowyn to the tune of Prohibition-era bootlegging, or: This Is What Happens When Someone Watches Too Much Boardwalk Empire)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bourbon & Bullets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brilligspoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilligspoons/gifts).



> Any and all mistakes are my fault since I didn't have anyone look this over, and I'm too lazy to do it myself. ENJOY
> 
> (Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Just having fun with them.)

**Atlantic City, 1921**

 

“Look around, gentlemen. America may have a President, but _we_ are its kings!”

The countless clinks of etched crystal tumblers provided a backdrop for the resounding cheer echoing throughout the warmly lit, smoke filled speakeasy. Well-dressed men walked over to give congratulatory slaps on the back to Boyd Mirren, who took a long drag on his fresh cigar.

That very afternoon, he had brokered an incredibly lucrative deal with New York’s own kingpin, Ari Gorney. Though his bootlegging operation was only a side note to his gambling rings and other assorted criminal pursuits, he ran his outfit like a business. The constant flow of alcohol in and out of Manhattan ran like a well-oiled machine, mostly due to Gorney’s refined ruthlessness. Dangerous though he might be, it was also well-known that the kingpin took care of those who were loyal to him. It was with this hope of mutual goodwill that the Mirrens agreed to sell a portion of their liquor specially shipped in directly from Europe to Gorney; in return, Boyd said, the payout Gorney had promised ensured they would be set for life.

While Freddy Mirren had wished to accompany his brother on the drive north, their father Dennis had ordered him to remain in Atlantic City to help oversee their local dealings. _The ignorant old bastard doesn’t think I can do anything_. Even when he and Boyd returned from France and Belgium respectively, it was Boyd who got the fanfare and praise; it was _Boyd_ who was the war hero come back from the brink of hell. Freddy may have been spared the atrocity of the trenches by some stroke of luck, but his status as a sharpshooter was not without its own horrors. Almost every night he was visited by those memories; could still feel the recoil of his Springfield ought-three as he took out another Jerry and saw blood and brain matter erupt from the man’s head; could still taste the acrid air permeated with the stench of dirt and powder and death.

Regardless, whatever ill will Freddy bore towards his disdainful father, he could never bring himself to hold it against Boyd. His older brother was only ever a friend, a fellow doughboy, and a partner in crime—quite literally, these days—who thankfully did not place too much stock in their father Dennis’ favoritism.

As a consequence, Freddy found himself pining more and more for the old days, back when they were still young and the world was full of adventure and possibility. Back when their father would take him and his brother for a stroll on the boardwalk and pretend to put up a fight as they each begged for a piece of saltwater taffy; back when there had been no concept of gangs and territory or war with the Kaiser. Some part of him wanted that innocent simplicity back, that blissful ignorance of how the world really works, while the rational part of him knew it was better to deal with reality because in the end that is truly all one has.

The sound of the door crashing open jolted Freddy from his thoughts.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a raid!”

The posse of dour faced Prohibition agents exploded into the speakeasy. Glasses smashed on the floor and chairs toppled over in the ensuing chaos while some people scrambled to flee the building and the rest recklessly began to brawl with the interlopers. A pint glass zoomed by Freddy’s head, just missing his temple, and shattered on the wall behind him.

That was when the shots started.

Whether it was one of the agents who started it or one of the men he was celebrating with, Freddy would never know. As he clambered through the panicking crowd, he tripped over a bar stool and landed head-first into the bar. By the time Freddy collected himself and got a good look at the aftermath, it appeared that most of the federal agents had been killed in the row; he imagined the remaining one or two must have fled. The few patrons still left in the speakeasy were the Mirrens’ men, who were in the process of assessing their comrades’ injuries.  Using the bar to pull himself up, Freddy noticed it was wet. One Prohibition enforcer lay unceremoniously slumped over the counter, his head turned so that his lifeless green eyes stared back at Freddy while dark blood oozed out of the man’s two gunshot wounds to the chest and across the polished wood. It was then that he saw it. His eyes fell on the crumpled heap sprawled against the opposite wall.

It was Boyd.

Rushing over to his older brother, Freddy saw that it was already too late. A crimson spatter of blood and gore painted the wallpaper above Boyd’s head like some kind of horrific halo. Fresh bullets lay next to his hand in his apparent futile effort to reload his pistol in time. Freddy sank to his knees, unable and unwilling to stem the flow of tears. A gentle hand on his shoulder made him start.

“He saved my life,” a man said thickly from behind Freddy, his own voice choked with sorrow. It was Sean, who had been a family friend of the Mirrens for years. He looked down at Freddy with red-rimmed eyes and an apologetic expression on his face. “The one Prohi, he…” Sean trailed off and nodded towards the green eyed man bleeding out on top of the bar. “He was fixin’ to plug me. Boyd… He got a shot in first—to disable him, like. So I had enough time to get out of the way.” He voice began to crack. “Fucking bastard got him before he could reload. He saved me,” he repeated in a broken whisper.

“A hero to the very end,” Freddy murmured, not unkindly.

_Rest well, brother. You've earned it._

 

* * *

 

The phone was ringing; its shrill alarm cut through the silence of Freddy’s slightly Spartan flat with all the grace of a freight train. Outside, the inky sky was slowly being overtaken by the dim, gray light of dawn. _I need to disconnect this damn thing_. With a graveled groan, Freddy drowsily rolled over in bed and picked up the earpiece. Every muscle in his body immediately tensed upon hearing whose voice was on the other end.

“I have a job for you,” Dennis said curtly by way of greeting. “Normally, this is the kind of thing Boyd would have taken care of, but you know how it is. ‘Desperate times’ and all that…”

Freddy bit his tongue. He could almost _hear_ his father’s black scowl. Sitting up in bed and leaning back against the wooden headboard, he licked his lips and tried to fight off the lingering effects of sleep. If there were a worse way to wake up, Freddy surely had no knowledge of it.

At his son’s silence, Dennis continued. “Gorney put me in touch with some boys who’re supposed to meet us halfway for a drop: Thursday, 2AM, Carpenter’s Woods in Philly. Two trucks—fifty crates of scotch, fifty gin. Get a few of your guys together and get it done.” He paused for a moment, apparently needing a minute to gather more scorn. “And don’t disappoint me, boy. I won’t have our supply lost or left vulnerable to feds through some fucking oversight of yours.”

“It wasn’t _my_ fault Joe didn’t tell me about that fucker snoopin’ around sooner,” Freddy answered through gritted teeth, knowing exactly which “oversight” his father referred to. The man who saw the suspicious scene had waited until the next day to tell Freddy about the incident. Little did it matter, however, because by the time Freddy got to the storehouse that morning, it had been cleaned out, every one of their painstakingly-acquired bottles nowhere to be found. It was then up to Freddy to find a new hiding place for the Mirrens’ liquor supply: a run-down, abandoned Victorian home on the outskirts of town that had thus far proven to be a sound choice.

“That’s the risk of running a lucrative business, boy. You know that there’ll always be some sap out to get his own piece of the pie,” the older man replied in irritation, his condescension palpable. “Now, if being in charge of a few rubes and some crates of booze is too much for a war veteran to handle, please let me know. I’m sure we could have your fourteen-year-old cousin brought down from Trenton no problem.”

His father’s stinging words settled around Freddy like a thick layer of dust. “You wish that things were reversed. Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Finally voicing the fear that had haunted him for so long, Freddy pressed on. “You wish that I had been killed in that raid instead of Boyd.”

An unnerving pause greeted him as precarious as fresh ice on a newly frozen pond.

“Yes,” Dennis replied flatly after a time. “That is what I wish.”

“I see.” Unable to believe what he was hearing, Freddy swallowed down the rocks in his throat, determined not to betray his upset at the blatant truth. “Well, since Boyd was taken from you, I will do what I can in his place.” He added, quietly, “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one who misses him.”

Wanting nothing more at the moment than to crawl inside a bottle and never come out, Freddy took a deep, shuddering breath. “Assuming this job isn’t some kind of set-up and I’m able to walk away unharmed,” he said patiently, “try to have a higher opinion of me, dad.”

“That’ll depend on the manner of your return.”

_Click._

The words were like a bayonet to the chest, its bite fierce and cold. Realizing he was only listening to dead air by that point, Freddy returned his phone to the nightstand while he furiously blinked away the bleary haze of tears pricking his eyes. Of course, he’d always had an inkling of his wretched father’s inherent disapproval. It had taken root in Freddy years ago, spreading over and closing about his heart like rust, bitter and corrosive. Ever since Boyd was killed, though, that disdain seemed to have grown tenfold. It was like to break him if he let it.

 _No_. He would not give his father the satisfaction.

Freddy grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey on his nightstand and made his way over the window. It was already opened in anticipation of the warm night, and he stood staring out through the upper panes, letting the balmy sea breeze cascade over his bare torso. It had been just over three months since they lost Boyd, but every day hurt just as much as the day before. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling even more exhausted than when he collapsed onto the mattress hours ago. After getting some fresh air and taking a long draft from his bottle, he decided to go back to bed, no matter how fruitless the effort would likely turn out to be. Somewhere between the drink and the mild, late May weather, Freddy Mirren drifted off to fitful sleep.

When he woke once more, the sun was high in the sky. Dressing in a hurry, Freddy got a bite to eat down at the drugstore and made his way over to the Mirrens’ storehouse. His first priority was to get his men together and have the necessary bottles moved to new crates and relabeled with more innocuous words in case they attracted attention en route. By then all that was left to do was load up the trucks and determine who was going to drive.

Sean was to drive the truck Freddy would ride in, while Jim and Earl would take the second vehicle. Two additional men would follow behind in a Model T for security. It was almost eleven o’clock by the time everything was ready to go, and Freddy suggested that they set out; less for fear of hitting some kind of late-night traffic than for his father’s ire should the job go awry.

Freddy was nothing if not a dutiful son. This deal would not go south—not if _he_ had anything to say about it.

The little convoy made good time. With twenty minutes to spare until the designated meeting time, Freddy and his men drove to the park at a leisurely pace; all the better not to attract unwarranted suspicion, anyway.

Upon reaching Carpenter’s Woods, they found their apparent contacts already waiting for them along the side of the road. After Sean rolled to a stop, Freddy cautiously exited the truck and approached the four men waiting for them. _Boys, more like._

The men Gorney sent could not have been more than eighteen, as green as the day is long. Two sat in the back of one empty truck, legs dangling over the edge and pipes in their mouths. A plump-faced young man hung his elbow out of the passenger side of the second truck and craned his head back to survey Freddy and his group. Meanwhile, the skinny one with dark curls peeking out from under his newsboy cap came out to meet Freddy and greeted the man with a curt nod.

“You Ari’s boy?”

“I’m twenty-four. I’m not a boy, pal,” the young man said with an exasperation which indicated he more than likely had no less than five people underestimate his age before lunchtime daily. Nevertheless, he held out his hand and Freddy took it. “Name’s Baggiano. Alfredo Baggiano.” The barest hint of an Italian accent colored his words.

“I’m Freddy—” he began in introduction.

“Mirren, I know,” Baggiano interrupted, waving a hand in dismissal. “The boss told us who you were. Now, as much as I’d like to stand here and barber, I’ve got a schedule to keep.” The slight man inclined his head towards his own vehicles.

Freddy nodded in understanding, signaling to his men to leave their vehicles and begin unloading. Spurred into action, Baggiano and his three associates walked over to help. Between the ten of them, the bootleggers made quick work of transferring the shipment.

As Gorney’s trucks rumbled away into the night and off towards New York, Freddy could not help releasing a sigh of relief. It was an easy enough job to be sure, but when the feds or a double-cross could be lurking around any corner, he considered the night a great success all the same. It was not until he was safely ensconced in his own vehicle again and almost at the city line that something caught his eye.

When he happened to glance down an alleyway, he saw a flurry of activity in front of an old garage. That would have been a bit strange in and of itself, let alone seeing so many busy men in one place at almost three o’clock in the morning. Feeling uncharacteristically lucky tonight and throwing caution to the wind, he had his driver slow down and pull over while he motioned for the others to continue on without him. He wanted to get his own, eyewitness feel for the typical bootlegging operations in Philadelphia, and this was as good a time as any. Making sure to tell Chuck to keep the motor running, Freddy left the truck to investigate. As stealthily as he could manage, he slowly approached the group of men hefting crates and casks, now near enough for Freddy to make out their words.

“Let’s pick up the pace here, fellas. This haul isn’t going to move itself. Uncle wants this shipment unloaded by dawn, and by Jove, that’s what he’ll get.”

Careful to remain hidden in the shadows of the alleyway, Freddy leaned in for an even closer look at the scene in front of him. Burly men rolled cask after cask off the truck parked in front of the nondescript garage, while a pale, blond man tallied up their load, nose deep in his leather-bound ledger. All told, about one hundred and twenty barrels by Freddy’s estimate dotted the entranceway to the garage, standing up in rows like doughboys ready to charge. _Scotch, and the real stuff, too_. Whoever these men were, they had connections as good as Freddy’s father to be able to bring in a shipment like this instead of resorting to the watered-down, bathtub rotgut that tended to pass for liquor in most places. The blond man picked up his head to better examine his illicit inventory, and…

Freddy’s eyes widened in realization. _It’s a dame_.

As Freddy strove to study this anomaly, he could not help but notice how her pinstriped suit, while ostensibly a man’s in style, favored her every curve. Under her charcoal gray fedora, he could see her wavy blonde hair was cut into a fashionable bob that almost seemed to glow like spun silver in the faint, predawn light. That was when it hit him.

 _The White Lady_. He’d heard the stories about her; all the local bootleggers had. She was nearly legendary among the East Coast gangs. She was Evelyn; the lovely, lethal, painfully shrewd Evelyn, niece of Teddy “King” Ronan, who could kill a man as soon as look at him. Freddy did not even have to wonder if she was packing heat beneath that well-tailored suit of hers. Utterly fascinated by this woman, but not keen on getting showered with lead by one of her likely trigger-happy muscle-men, Freddy decided against making his presence known.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Before he could even turn around, a strong arm grabbed him from behind, and Freddy felt the unmistakable cold pressure of a pistol pressed to his back. Resolving to take the diplomatic route if he could, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, Ev! Looks we got ourselves a tail,” the assailant called out as he prodded Freddy away from the alley and towards the door of the garage. “You’re not a fucking Prohi, are you, Mac?” Freddy arched his back slightly while the muzzle of the man’s weapon pushed farther and farther into Freddy’s spine.

The White Lady sauntered up to the pair—confidence in crimson lips. “Calm down, Elmer. He’s no fed,” she said as she crossed her arms over her chest and shamelessly sized up Freddy from head to toe. “Civil service doesn’t pay this well,” she added with a wry smile, motioning to his expensive suit. Her cold blue eyes never left his, studying him, _challenging_ him.

“Look, I was just out for a walk. Couldn’t sleep, you know? If you’re going to bump me off for _that_ , I’d hate to see what you do to the other insomniacs,” Freddy said with affected indifference. Clearly not buying his lie, the woman gingerly pulled his lapel to the side to catch a glimpse of his own gun and made a quiet humming sound to herself in appraisal.

“You’re a damn awful liar, you know that?” Her face was mere inches from his, and any warmth in her tone had evaporated as quickly as morning dew. “Tell me who the fuck you are, or give the wall a fresh coat of paint. Your choice.”

Freddy saw little to gain in further lying to a Ronan. And even if he were able to extricate himself from the other man’s grasp, he would not be able to take on all the other goons singlehandedly. _Fine, let them know who I am—joke’s on them. Even if they demand a ransom, Pop’ll never pay it_.

“Mirren. Freddy Mirren,” he answered, sighing in resignation but still holding her steely gaze.

“Mirren?” Her smug façade broke for the briefest of moments, but she recovered quickly. “That wouldn’t be any relation to a certain Dennis Mirren of Atlantic City, now, would it?”

“My father.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I wasn’t aware Mirren had any other sons.”

“It comes as a shock to him too, most times.”

The self-deprecating remark earned an amused smirk from her. But his relief was short-lived once he realized the other man—Elmer—seemed to have no intention of taking his pistol from its new resting place on Freddy’s back.

“Tell you what, slick,” Evelyn continued, turning to make sure her men were still unloading the trucks, “I’m in a good mood tonight. You’re free to go.” Quicker than lightning, she spun back around to face Freddy, her own handgun jammed into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. He felt the weapon’s pressure shift a bit under his tongue when he swallowed. “I’m willing to spare your life, on the condition that you do something for _me_. Then we’ll be hitting on all eight. Sound good?”

She took Freddy’s silence for assent and continued. “Word on the street is that dear old dad has an in with _the_ Ari Gorney. As luck would have it, my uncle Teddy has been looking to expand his… business ventures. He wants to broker his own deal with Gorney, and I think you could help _immensely_ in that area. I want you to use your connections—grease the wheels a bit. Convince Gorney to meet with my uncle, and we can put this nasty business of your eavesdropping behind us.” She added with a smirk, “We all have to get our foot in the door somehow.”

“Fine,” he answered coolly. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m not making any promises, though.”

“Good.” She uncocked her pistol and tucked it safely back under her suit jacket.

“So, what’s in it for me?” he asked, gaining a bit more confidence in the face of this maddeningly intriguing woman. He spread his hands in the air in front in himself. “This is a pretty tall order, sister. I hope to get a little more out of this than just my life.”

She beamed up at him, equal parts mirth and malice. “Oh, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”


End file.
